


on the romanticization of drunken confessions

by Ceryna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Innuendo, M/M, Oops, and a blend of: exhibitionism voice and hand kinks, brief depiction of masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: >>> sakuatsu week day three, tier three || you are not the only one to sit awake until the wild feelings leaveA loathing coils under Kiyoomi's skin, a crawling irritation that roils his gut as he answers the knock at his door, pulling it open–Revealing one ridiculously plastered Miya Atsumu.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 351
Collections: SakuAtsu Week 2020





	on the romanticization of drunken confessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeybakedgrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedgrace/gifts), [cajynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cajynn/gifts), [astroeulogy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy/gifts), [pseudoanalytics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/gifts).



> thank you to gaby and grace for graciously beta-reading this for me, and helping me take this fic into its completed form. additional thanks to bree and quip for being their wonderful selves and giving me inspiration. 
> 
> that being said: i have returned with more Sakusa pov. please enjoy the shenanigans that spiraled out of my control.
> 
> if you would like to avert your eyes to the main reason for the rating, you can skip from the sentence _Kiyoomi is unable to resist._ and pick back up again here with _Steam rises in clouds around him._

If Kiyoomi was asked for his thoughts on drunken confessions six months ago, he would’ve said they’re pointless and unromantic.

Firstly, the feeling of inebriation is one that Kiyoomi rarely chooses to tolerate. It isn't particularly enjoyable, as some people ascribe it to be– the loss of complete control over his limbs and tongue is something Kiyoomi only allows himself to do within the comfort of his own home... 

With his phone carefully powered off and put away, out of concern that he might share something he'll regret– to _someone_ he might regret. It’s an exercise of caution, one of many that Kiyoomi meticulously incorporates into his daily life.

Second: the act of confessing is something Kiyoomi firmly believes should be done sober. It's irrational to disclose things when you cannot be sure what you're actually disclosing, or if your confession makes any veritable sense. If you don’t know who you're actually acknowledging while words may or may not be spilling out of your mouth, that’s a problem. 

Third– as someone who uses words more sparingly, sharp tongue absolving no one, Kiyoomi wonders why anyone would bother saying anything at all, if they– or the person they’re speaking to– won't remember it. There’s no point in "mustering courage" if it only results in stupidity– isn't it a rather aimless endeavor to speak to someone with words you both want and _don't_ want them to hear?

And lastly, the romantic impressions of intoxicated proclamations. Kiyoomi has no idea where to even begin with this. There's nothing romantic in slurred words, breath reeking of alcohol, the "buzzing itch under the skin" depicted in popular media... The inevitability of a hangover the next morning, effectively scrambling the memories of whatever words were actually spoken with the memories of the words you thought you spoke, as well as words you forgot to say. 

Not being able to choose your own words should never be considered maudlin or sentimental. Fumbling for words that do nothing to describe what you intend to say, because you can't think– why should the act of _not thinking_ be romanticized?

Kiyoomi scrunches his nose in distaste. _Drunken confessions?_

He wouldn't touch one with a fifty-meter pole. 

# ***

When the aircons in the Black Jackals dorm complex decide to collectively malfunction, the solution is to go out to an izakaya for cold beers and sake. And then to double up at other people's residences overnight, since the soonest a repairman can come is early the next morning. 

As Kiyoomi is one of the few team members that rents a house instead of an apartment– as he needs his own space for his sanity– he really doesn't see how he can survive a night “bunking” with someone else. Although his teammates aren't strangers– Kiyoomi is hesitant to acknowledge them as his friends to their faces– there's respecting Kiyoomi's physical boundaries, and then there's his _personal_ boundaries.

Which include no one else in his house, thank you. 

No one else, perhaps, ever. 

But with a direct message from Meian, who is opening up his living room and couch for Inunaki and Bokuto– who also indicated that Barnes would be staying with Tomas until the repairs are complete... Kiyoomi is under the impression he has no choice in the matter. 

A loathing coils under his skin, a crawling irritation that roils his gut as he answers the knock at his door, pulling it open– 

Revealing one ridiculously plastered Miya Atsumu.

"Heeeeeeeeeey, Omi-kun," Atsumu greets, duffel strap straining precariously on his shoulder. "Cap'n told me... uh. Ta go this add...ress." He waves his dimly lit phone screen in Kiyoomi's face. "S'uh. Why's ya here?"

"I live here," Kiyoomi says flatly. He wants to block Atsumu from coming in, but that involves touching the door frame... which leads him to the unfortunate conclusion that he'd rather let Atsumu in than touch the door frame.

_Eugh._

"Ya have a house, Omi-Omi?"

Kiyoomi glares. "You're looking at it."

"Naaaaaah," Atsumu drawls. "M'lookin' at _ya,_ Omi-kun."

Oh.

“Yer way… beautifuler than…” Atsumu gestures vaguely at the house, using his left hand to curl his right into a fist and then extracting his index finger to point at it. “Tha’.”

_Oh no._

Kiyoomi should close the door right now and walk away. He should slide the door into its frame, turn the lock, and retreat into the safety of his house.

But the walls are useless in blocking out the rumble of Atsumu’s voice, soft as it echoes in Kiyoomi’s head, bypassing the sanity filter to repeat _I’m lookin’ at_ **_ya,_ ** _Omi-kun. Lookin’ at ya lookin’ at ya lookin’ at ya like I fuckin’ always am when yer not, ya like when I look at ya, don’t ya Omi–_

Fucking hell.

Kiyoomi squints his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose, and blinks them open again– careful to stare directly at the bridge of Atsumu’s nose. There, _not_ his eyes. “If you throw up anywhere that is not _in_ the toilet,” he says slowly, icily, “I will murder you.”

“Ooooh, Omi-kun, tha’s hot.”

Kiyoomi blinks. _What the fuck_ _–_

“Tha murder part,” Atsumu elaborates less-than-eloquently. “Ya should talk like tha’ more often.”

“...Alluding to murder is hot?” 

There’s a sentence Kiyoomi never in his life imagined saying, but–

“Well, naaah, I guess not.” Atsumu’s smile dips into a frown that _somehow_ manages to look pensive. “But it is when ya do it, Omi-Omi, yer voice gets real… real, uh, rocky? Nuh, tha’s not it... stony? Stone, but like, _pretty_ stone.” 

He snaps his fingers once, twice– then his grin lights up like the Sumidagawa fireworks festival– mirroring the sparks skittering between Kiyoomi’s ribs.

“Diamonds!” 

Atsumu shouts it like he’s solved an impossible riddle– like he’s excavated the cavern in Kiyoomi’s chest, finding untouched treasures– and deserves a goddamn prize. 

_Prizes,_ actually, that Kiyoomi'd _like_ to give him– which is absurd, in both the quantity of prizes and the _desire_ to give them in the first place… Prizes Kiyoomi would be even _more_ likely to give him if they weren't about to be implicated in a noise ordinance violation.

So he grabs the collar of Atsumu’s jacket. 

Pulls him over the threshold and into his house. 

And eases the door closed behind him with a hissed, “shut the fuck up.” 

“Diamonds,” Atsumu whispers, and then lets out a quiet “heh.” 

The little chuckle sends warmth fluttering up Kiyoomi’s spine, caressing one vertebra after another. He takes a deep breath, slowly, attempting to calm his racing mind– which always considered diamonds overrated and ridiculously expensive, and therefore a waste of money– 

But Kiyoomi has always silently appreciated beautiful things. Diamonds are multifaceted, prismatic, all sharp-edges but smooth to touch– like Atsumu, as Kiyoomi _imagines_ him to be– 

_M'lookin' at ya, Omi–_

Which is a whole other fucking problem. 

"Shoes off," Kiyoomi growls, stomping up from the genkan and definitely not thinking about what would happen if he demanded other articles of clothing be removed as well. 

Atsumu stumbles out of his sneakers and nearly faceplants into the wall– but stops himself by bracing his hand against it, the seemingly effortless coordination contradicting his alcohol-impacted speech patterns. 

Kiyoomi watches the muscles in Atsumu's forearm shift under his skin as they balance his weight. His fingers are splayed out like a contemporary art exhibition– a gallery that belongs in Kiyoomi's bedroom, hammered askew against beige walls or draped in silky sheets in a private collection– 

_Fuck._

Atsumu runs his other sculpted hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes– eyes that Kiyoomi knows he'll get lost in if he looks too long. "Tha' was close," he says, voice hollow with awe– as if his ability to avert catastrophes of his own making is praiseworthy– and follows Kiyoomi out of the genkan with mismatched socks.

The fluorescent yellow and neon orange are vivid against the cherrywood floors. They’re an impression of the sun, blazing brightly with an ardor that Kiyoomi has, against all odds, gotten used to having in proximity– glowing across the room, by his side, in his ribcage– scalding him from the inside out.

"Have you had any water," Kiyoomi mutters, and immediately regrets not speaking louder as Atsumu leans in, bringing his musky citrus and mint aroma with him.

"Wha's tha' ya said, Omi-kunnn?" 

Atsumu slurs his words with an efficiency that prickles the back of Kiyoomi's neck, inflection curling Kiyoomi's fingers into his palms, knuckles burning white hot–

"Water?" Atsumu’s confusion lilts away into something tender. "Awww, ya do care 'bout meeee, huh, Omi-Omi!" 

Kiyoomi turns away to bite his lip. _He does._ More than is safe for his sanity, in fact. He shuffles into the kitchen, pulling down an empty plastic cup and running it two-thirds of the way full with tap water. 

Gingerly, he holds the cup out for Atsumu. “Drink.”

“This s’a plas… plastic.” Atsumu speaks as though he’s forgotten how words taste in his mouth. But he accepts the cup, the callused pad of his pinky finger brushing Kiyoomi's wrist. “Ya don’ trust me with glass?”

Kiyoomi settles for shaking his head, the brief second of contact having short-circuited his brain. But the gesture does nothing to erase the question of _how would Atsumu taste, if Kiyoomi ran his tongue over Atsumu’s lips, mouth, teeth, tongue–_

“S’okay, I wouldn’ trust me either.” 

There’s a self-deprecating honesty hidden under that blasé delivery, Kiyoomi knows. Knows like the back of his hands, like a second skin– scraped raw and pink beneath truth and craving. "Drink," he says, wincing at the softness embedded in the tone, and walks out of the room.

Many spare sets of clean sheets are stacked in his hall closet. Kiyoomi observes the various colors of folded cotton, eventually settling on a navy set along with a spare deep grey mattress cover.

The futon in his living room folds out, intended as space to comfortably relax more than as a precaution for unexpected visitors barging their way into his too-small-for-two house. He slides the closet door shut with his foot, pasting a grimace on his face as he returns to the kitchen.

Atsumu is still holding the water cup. Upon closer inspection, Kiyoomi sees that it's empty– but Atsumu hasn’t moved from where he hovers by the sink, glancing back and forth between plastic and stainless steel. "I wan' more..." Sensing Kiyoomi's presence, he hesitates, but meets Kiyoomi's eyes before he continues. "But I dunno wha's safe for me ta touch."

_Nothing is safe,_ Kiyoomi thinks– but he's no longer sure if Atsumu was asking about the sink, or if the question was about _him._

The back of Kiyoomi's neck warms, skin flushing as he wonders– not for the first time– what might happen if _every_ part of him was safe for Atsumu to touch.

What those callused fingertips would feel like against Kiyoomi's lips, collarbones, throat– they'd cleave scratch marks into the skin above his scapulae, carving fingerprint-shaped bruises into his thighs– 

_What if it was his teeth instead–_

Kiyoomi jolts, trying to disguise the jerky movement as nothing more than a shudder. But his mind grips tight to the image of his skin stained with bite marks, and a certain dyed-blond head and feral grin that would condescend to put them there. 

"Please," Kiyoomi accuses in self-exasperation. "It's just a sink."

“S’not jus’ any sink.” Atsumu raises an eyebrow, concern wrapped into a pout. “‘S yers.” 

The simplicity of the statement will be Kiyoomi’s undoing. It fractures his resolve, tearing it down to the final and strongest threads, where it lingers– 

As Kiyoomi’s mind replays Atsumu’s words, tying them firmly to the image of him in Kiyoomi’s kitchen, mismatched socks and all, as he brushes a rough thumb over Kiyoomi’s wrist, skimming over the pulse point as he says “S’not jus’ anyone,” with that concerned pout that curls up into a vulnerable, little smile. “‘S _ya,_ Omi.”

_M'lookin' at ya, Omi–_

“Wash your hands,” Kiyoomi pleads in a small voice, and hurries to arrange the futon. He slips the mattress cover over the base cushion, laying it flat and tucking the fitted sheet over it. Silvery-grey vanishes beneath swaths of navy, like an ocean at night–

But Kiyoomi is the one drowning. 

He lays the flat sheet neatly atop the sea, returning to the hall closet for a blanket and withdraws cerulean fleece and emerald wool. The sea grows murkier, but is ever so lovely.

When Kiyoomi leans back on his heels, standing amidst a bottomless ocean, Atsumu's gaze lifts him above it, planting his feet on the surface in hopeful impossibility. 

"Yer gonna l-lemme stay?" Disbelief coats Atsumu's voice as he stutters, footfalls taking him to the opposite side of the futon. "I jus' need ta sober up a bi' more, then I'll be outta yer way, Omi-kun." 

A thread snaps. Only two remain, two that tether Kiyoomi to the knowledge of futile recklessness– of _wanting,_ never deserving– 

But that same desperation lurks under his skin, spurs him across that ocean to drag Atsumu by the arm to the hall bathroom. He flicks on the overhead light to reveal a new toothbrush, unopened, and an untouched travel-size toothpaste. 

Kiyoomi had to search for them– if _search_ meant stare at his own supply of extras for five and a half minutes before selecting ones for Atsumu to have–

_Have,_ not borrow. 

"You're a hazard to everyone," Kiyoomi seethes, breath hot in his lungs, "so do yourself a favor and stay." _Do me a favor and don't leave._ "I won't ask again." _I won't stop you from leaving, but you're welcome to stay._

"Ya shoul’ be careful what ya ask for, Omi-kun." Atsumu pries open the plastic seal of the toothbrush package, meeting Kiyoomi's eyes in the mirror. "I migh' never leave." 

_Snap._

"Brush your teeth, wash your stupid face, and go to sleep.” Kiyoomi tastes blood in his mouth as he clings to his last shred of resolve. “You can use the shower when you're not gonna trip and split your head open on the edge of the tub."

Atsumu yawns, fatigue shifting what remains of his– Kiyoomi is hesitant to say _wistful–_ expression into a tired smile. "G'night, Omi-Omi." 

Kiyoomi forces himself to turn away. "Goodnight," he murmurs, and keeps his steps even as he walks back down the hallway and up the stairs. His vision goes glassy after four, his lungs shake after eight, and his hands tremble as they grip the railing, pulling him the rest of the way up to the second floor landing. 

He stumbles into his bedroom, rucking his shirt over his head with fingers he wishes were wider and rougher, the back of his hand rising to his mouth to muffle the sob that threatens to wrench ribs out of his chest, making room for his lungs to breathe around his shuddering, spitfire heart.

His socks are next, freeing his toes to curl in agony into soft carpet, then his sweatpants and briefs, which tangle around his ankles and bring his knees to burn against nylon. Eventually, his feet carry him unsteadily into the shower room across the hall– where his fumbling fingers miss the switch for the fan twice before it roars on, obliterating the whisper of the door shutting and the click of the lock as it slides home. 

Kiyoomi doesn't bother adjusting the water to warm. He slams his hand on the push-button shower head, inciting rains to thunder forth. Ice streams into his hair, sleet flurries across his shoulders, thighs numbing under a torrential downpour that rinses the residue of _wanting_ from his skin.

It distorts the image of those fingerprints and teethmarks, blurring them beyond recognition– but still Kiyoomi scrubs, raking shampoo-coated hands through frigid curls, dragging conditioner through the aftermath before he's anywhere near relaxed enough to soothe soap into his goosebumped skin, rather than use it to scrape his skin away–

_M'lookin' at ya, Omi._

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes, sinking back into cold tile.

_Lookin’ at ya._

Kiyoomi's knuckles find his mouth and brace there. He sucks in a breath, fingers drifting from where they rest against his thigh–

_M’lookin’ at ya, Omi, and I’m not gonna stop–_

Kiyoomi is unable to resist. 

Up and to the left, his thumb presses into hot, damp skin– silky beneath padded fingertips his mind masquerades as another's. Fingertips that ghost, grip, glide– until the oxygen tears free from his lungs, igniting an inferno between his ribs as galaxies bloom behind his eyelids.

And when Kiyoomi opens his eyes to confront his foggy reflection in the mirror, rinsing muck from his hands and remnants of salt trails from his cheeks with water– _warm_ water, he realizes, scowling in self-betrayal at the dial that no longer points to blue. He considers twisting the steel back to an arctic chill, but discovers he can't muster the nerve to do so–

Can't, because he _doesn't want to._

Steam rises in clouds around him, heady and billowing, and a laugh gets stuck in his throat. In a twist of irony, _Kiyoomi_ is the one feeling drunk– his head spins, breaths stolen from his lungs by a thief that, by now, slumbers below. 

He's relieved he thought to make Atsumu take the futon, because the portrait of him in Kiyoomi's bed is one Kiyoomi is unable to ignore. 

His utterly ridiculous face, soft with sleep, pressed into a pillow to match Kiyoomi's own– leaving tufts of blonde hair sticking up to shine with the sunrise. Light streams in through the blinds, painting parallel lines across a familiar tan, muscled back under a creamy off-white duvet–

Kiyoomi sighs. He has always silently appreciated beautiful things… so he can't fault himself for toweling dry, slipping into a fresh terrycloth robe, and meandering ever-so-quietly back downstairs. 

The living room is dark, save for a diamond of moonlight that stretches across the cherrywood– 

_Diamonds._

A reminder of how Kiyoomi's evening was loudly interrupted, ribcage doors cracking open under a battering ram better known as Miya Atsumu. 

Kiyoomi's socks– a matched set in dark grey– pad softly across the floor and into the kitchen. A plausible excuse for when Atsumu rolls over–

But Atsumu’s breaths are deep and even with sleep, and he emits a quiet snore from where he floats in a sea of stars. 

Noiselessly, Kiyoomi pulls down a fresh glass– Atsumu placed the one he used in the dishwasher, left open– and warmth seeps into Kiyoomi's chest. He runs the sink faucet at a minimal drip, water filling the inside of the glass halfway before Kiyoomi shuts it off. 

Walking into the living room, he withdraws ibuprofen from his pocket– taken from the above-the-toilet cabinet in the upstairs bathroom and placed delicately into a tissue– and sets them and the water glass on the coffee table. 

Kiyoomi watches the rise and fall of Atsumu's chest beneath the blankets. His foot with the neon yellow sock sticks out off the edge of the futon, and one hand rests against the end of the cushion, fingers draping over the side. His blond hair is mussed against the pillow, lips parted slightly–

"You know..." 

Kiyoomi lets that final thread unravel, whispering into the darkness and taking comfort in knowing Atsumu cannot hear him. 

"The only thing that can scratch a diamond is another diamond." 

Kiyoomi lingers a moment longer before turning away, continuing upstairs while disregarding the urge to look back–

To where Atsumu lays, wide-eyed, staring after Kiyoomi's retreating figure, breath stuck in his lungs as his pulse ratchets to the stars.

# ***

A key slides into the lock of Kiyoomi's front door at 11:37pm on a Saturday. It clinks quietly as the teeth align with the grooves, hissing under pressure before the bolt slides back. The hinges swing wide open– taking Kiyoomi's heart with them.

"Heeeeeey, Omi-ai*," Atsumu drawls in greeting. He slings off his jacket, arms tangling in the sleeves as he attempts to shake them off. Eventually he manages to wrangle himself free, placing the jacket on one of the over-the-door hooks in the genkan. 

He sits down, slowly, then tugs on his shoelaces, slipping off grey sneakers before his feet thunder up onto cherrywood with heavy, uneven steps. Traipsing into the living room, he sidles up to the back of the futon– 

Folded upright as Kiyoomi leans against it, feet tucked up with him, a book open in his lap– one that he's no longer reading. 

Atsumu lingers there a moment, hovering in Kiyoomi's peripheral before muttering, "wai' a minute." He shuffles down the hall, bathroom door clacking shut and the faucet hissing on beyond it. 

Four minutes and three seconds pass before Kiyoomi hears the door open– not that he was counting.

Atsumu's footsteps pad over to the couch. He leans over the back, resting his head on the cushions next to Kiyoomi's shoulder, peering up at Kiyoomi with eyes like nebulas. Dimples frame his smile, one side quirked up– not quite a smirk, but soft and lingering. 

Kiyoomi notes the citrus aromas that cling to Atsumu's skin, peppermint on his breath, and lets a smile steal over his face, visibly tender. He's rewarded with a little gasp– 

A puff of mint as Atsumu catches his breath, and then tilts his head up, up, until his lips brush the corner of Kiyoomi's mouth, whispering two familiar, slurred words into the skin. 

"'M home." 

The book tumbles from Kiyoomi's lap. His hands surge up, one cupping a freshly washed cheek and the other carding through fine blond strands, and he turns his head, inviting Atsumu's tongue into his mouth. 

His boyfriend responds in kind, tasting of mint toothpaste and astringent alcohol muddled by mouthwash. His hands, still mildly damp, reach over to hold the back of Kiyoomi's neck, callused thumbs running over the jugular and dripping water onto Kiyoomi's clavicle. 

The haphazard cleanliness is distinctly Atsumu, Kiyoomi thinks, his hand that was on Atsumu's cheek moving to tug on the collar of his shirt. 

"Mm, Omi." Atsumu crawls over the back of the futon as prompted, breaking the kiss to whisper Kiyoomi's name on his lips. "'M home."

"You said that already." The complaint falls from Kiyoomi breathlessly, his pulse halting as Atsumu's knees sandwich his thighs, stuttering to life again as Atsumu lowers himself onto Kiyoomi with a warm, heavy _thud._

"I don' care." Atsumu smirks, smoothing some of Kiyoomi's bangs away from his forehead. "I know ya like hearin' it."

The smirk combined with their brand of romantic language is dizzying enough for a blush to rise to Kiyoomi's face, but does nothing to stop him from echoing the sentiment. "You're home," he murmurs, words falling from his lips in quiet confession. 

Atsumu's smile is tender with a wicked edge. "Weeeell?" He drawls, leaning back on his heels, intertwining their fingers in a promise that ignites Kiyoomi's veins. "Now tha' m'here, what're ya gonna do with me?"

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, his smile unwavering as he stands from the futon, tugging Atsumu's hand in a vice grip towards the stairs. He's long resigned himself to living under Atsumu's influence– but he still has his secrets. 

So he meets eyes of molten gold, and teases, with a voice low and smug, a promise of his own.

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

And when Atsumu near-trips over his feet in his haste to ascend the stairs, Kiyoomi has his answer.

**Author's Note:**

> *Omi-ai: "Omiai" refers to the concept of Japanese marriage interviews. Please accept my hc that this nickname probably started as a joke, but grew to mean something else: another kanji read as 'ai' means 'love'.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, if you like the story and characterization ^^
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


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